The Monkshood Plant
by Ithilmir
Summary: Javert has a little secret, and Sergeant Claudain wonders why he does NOT want to do the night shift... amongst other things. AU. Chapter 5 posted.
1. The Evils of Aniseed

**A/N:** There's been a lot of stuff flying around recently relating Javert to a certain animal, so I thought "Hey, why not take it to the extremes?" R&R. Also inspired by a snide comment passed by my ex-Physics teacher about Javert's side-whiskers. Not meant to be taken seriously; I'm just mucking around. Written more for my own curiosity than anyone else's. If you object, I might remind readers that there is a warning posted in my bio. Mr. Bennett; revenge is mine >:-)

P.S. Beware of long descriptive paragraphs. First attempt at 1st person. I also have no idea how to go about writing Vidocq, so I've done my best. Correct me if I'm wrong. It's late.

* * *

Paris – 1832

1. The Evils of Aniseed

Night is coming; I can sense it. Truth be told, I don't need to sense it – any fool can look out of a window and see the sun setting. It's instinct, and an instinct I would rather be without, amongst a lot of other things… But on this occasion it serves as a potent reminder.

Damn.

Currently I'm dealing with a case that was left over from earlier today; some robbery on a shop which should have been straightforward enough. Unfortunately, as a result of carelessness from one of the perpetrators the shop owner was killed in the incident, adding murder/manslaughter to the charge and thus complicating things. In all sense I shouldn't have started it today – I knew I was on a tight schedule tonight, so why did I let myself become so absorbed in this? I'll have to finish tomorrow.

I wipe the pen and replace it back in the stand, wave the paper slightly to dry it, place the sheet in the file and put it to one side. Just as I am putting on my greatcoat there is a knock at the door and the duty sergeant pokes his head into the room. Claudain is his name, and anything that he comes to see me about usually does not bode well for me.

"Monsieur –"

"Not now, Claudain." I say, picking up my hat.

"But monsieur, I've just had a message from Inspector Duros. His wife's gone into labour and he can't make it to take his shift tonight, so he asks if you can cover for him."

Oh Christ.

"I'm afraid the answer is no, sergeant. On any other occasion I would say yes, but not tonight."

"But, monsieur –"

"I'm sorry, sergeant," I say, gruffly. "But that is my final word on it. You'll have to find someone else."

And with that I sweep out of the post, leaving the disappointed Claudain behind. Despite my certainty I feel slightly guilty for being so sharp with him. Duros is a good man, and if I had a choice I would say yes… but I can't, not tonight.

I walk through the streets quickly, my hands in my pockets, my chin tucked into my cravat. If I'd known how long those notes were going to take I would have left it till tomorrow. As a result I am an hour behind schedule; an hour I really hope I can make up. Maybe. If I run.

The sky now bleeds blood red and pink shot with gold, fast coming on to twilight. I quicken my pace, centring all my thoughts on the one purpose of getting home before it's dark. All the time I keep one eye on the sun, watching it sink lower and lower on the horizon. I go past a tavern and brush past a group of men – police officers – several of whom I know. They have been drinking and one smiles and tries to attract my attention; but I walk straight by without so much as a second glance. Unperturbed, they go back into the pub.

I have wasted too much time; my body tells me that as I turn into the street where my apartment is situated, my stomach giving a violent lurch. I break into a run over the last few metres, and in no time I am standing before the front door of the tenement, fiddling with my keys.

"C'mon, c'mon!"

Being the police officer that I am I carry a great many keys about my person and to extract one in a hurry is not always easy. The important ones, such as those for my desk and the cells, I keep on a separate ring and habit is such that I can access these without hesitation – but the key I am after now is a very different story. I doesn't help that my hands are shaking.

Finally I manage to find the right key and persuade it into the lock. As soon as the door is open I am up the stairs like a bat out of hell, not giving a second thought to the ancient treads creaking and moaning under my weight. Once I have got to the third floor I again wrestle with my bundle of keys, extracting the correct one and shoving it into the lock. I literally fall into the room, my legs feeling as if they've turned to water, but once over the threshold I manage to slam my full weight against the door making it close with a loud bang that echoes down the gloomy stairwell.

For a moment I just stay there; leaning against the woodwork, breathing hard. I made it! I'm back! That was too close, too close for comfort! I should never have let my concentration lapse so much – this mustn't happen again.

I stand there a little longer, a sense of relief washing over me momentarily… until I bend double in agony. Idiot! I'd let myself forget why I was here! I hastily make to remove my clothes, starting with my boots, next my coat and my jacket. The priority is to get my work clothes off – I have plenty of shirts, but if I ruin these I have to pay considerably more for any replacements. It is at this point as I am tackling my braces that there comes a knock on the door.

"Monsieur Javert? Is everything alright?"

Shit. It's the concierge. I curse myself for being so careless; I should have known the commotion would have aroused her curiosity.

"Yes, madame," I say as casually as possible; but in my haste I accidentally ping my braces across the room into the opposite wall. Blast!

"Are you certain, monsieur? Only I heard this noise, someone slamming a door and footsteps running up the stairs –"

"Perfectly fine, madame!" I call out as I begin to shake, a cold sweat breaking out all over my body. "I – I just wasn't feeling all that well and was in a hurry to get home. But everything's alright!"

"But, monsieur," She has not yet gone. Why won't she go? Why won't she just take a hint? "You are never ill! Would you like me to fetch a doctor?"

"No, madame – I'm perfectly fine." I say, taking off my trousers as with a hot, prickling sensation fur begins to swathe over my back and down my arms. Go away! Clear off, you daft old bat!

"As long as you are certain, monsieur…"

"Thank you, madame; I am certain." My ears have crawled up the side of my head and begin to drastically change shape. My hearing improves dramatically and I can hear the old lady muttering under her breath the other side of the door.

"_Certain indeed! I'll wager two sous tomorrow he'll be flat on his back and not able to move!"_

It's a bad habit with her. She seems to have this idea that no one can hear these comments passed in furtive undertones. Most people have formed the conclusion that she is slightly demented and tend to indulge this folly. I try, but I don't always have the patience.

"Good night, madame," I say pointedly.

There is the slightest intake of breath from the other side of the door – she is obviously surprised I know she is still there.

"Goo… goodnight, monsieur,"

And with that I hear her footsteps retreating along the landing, muttering as she goes.

"_Men! Never take enough care of themselves! Needs a good woman – man like that should have a wife to take care of him! Doesn't eat enough; all skin and bones..."_

I have often wondered about that woman. I've lived here since my first day in Paris and ever since she has daily ribbed me about my marital status, health and eating habits. Over the past nine years she seems to have got this idea fixed into her head that I am something of a child that needs to be taken care of. At first this attention unnerved me, but very soon I became accustomed to it; mainly by spending as much time as possible elsewhere or just nodding and grunting at given intervals when I can't avoid being spoken to. She also seems to think I am undernourished, which is plain ridiculous. If I ate as much as she thinks suitable I would have to let all my undergarments and trousers out by about five inches – then I would be in no fit state to perform any of my duties. I don't know; women fall in love with slim, handsome young men only to encourage spreading waistlines later in life. Sometimes I thank God that I never did get married.

The plates of my skull are now sliding against each other, my teeth growing longer and sharper, and my nose and mouth coming together to form a muzzle, more and more fur spreading over my body – what human hair I had before combining with the fur to create something of a mane. I sigh inwardly as I feel the familiar wave of nausea that comes whilst my senses readjust. Not much longer to go now – another two or three minutes… But it is then that I start to feel the tightening sensation around my thickening neck.

The cravat! I forgot the bloody cravat! I have to get it off or else it'll strangle me! I claw at the cloth, desperately trying to untie the knot, but with every passing second my fingers are losing their articulation and fusing together, my nails lengthening and thumbs disappearing almost completely.

I am panicking now and begin to choke through loss of breath. The mane of grey fur growing beneath my collar has nowhere to go and is forming a ring of thick insulation, serving to make the collar tighter and hotter. Heat, no blood flow, so much fur! I feel so dizzy… I can't breathe! I'm going to die! Help me! I'm dying!

I let out a half human cry, and with one final effort manage to rip the cravat and collar away from my throat, throwing them on the floor. I don't bother with pleasantries for the rest – I tear the shirt open down the front just as my legs buckle underneath me and I fall onto all fours.

Here comes the bit I hate most. The joints in my legs reverse violently with a loud crunch, my pelvis rearranges itself and my shoulders narrow considerably. All this time my body feels as if it is full of thousands of tiny splinters, the bones of my skeleton either lengthening or shortening depending on their need. What makes it even more sickening is that not everything changes at the same time.

The next moment I am dreading. Any second now…

ARGGGHH!

My spine suddenly elongates as the tail shoots out behind me and extends, skin forming over the top of the bone, then fur. Oh, that hurt…

Once, when I was younger, I was curious as to what these transformations would look like to an onlooker if ever my secret was discovered. I arranged it one time that I stood in front of a full-length mirror, stripped mother naked so I could clearly see what the effect was. I reasoned that maybe if things weren't too bad I might be able to take a few of my closer friends into confidence, for several had begun to notice my timely absences and were starting to ask questions. When the changes did come, however, my reasoning was proved severely wrong. I don't think I stopped screaming until the new arrangement of my mouth and vocal chords made it impossible to do so any longer… and even then I was still screaming on the inside.

Since then I have never set foot in front of a mirror near the time of the full moon and have been careful to make sure I cannot accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in one. For this reason you will only find one tiny, ancient mirror in my flat – in the bedroom, just above the washbasin, mounted on the wall high above dog height. The few visitors I have had here take it as a sign of modesty, thinking that I am a man free from vanity. I am content to let them think that.

I feel the last few bits of fur settle into place, and then it's over. I'm a wolf. I'm a wolf wearing an oversized, torn white shirt in an apartment in the middle of Paris.

Violently I shake myself until I can persuade the ruined garment to part company with me; which is by no means an easy task. A shameful waste of good clothing, but shirts are easy to replace. Well, to be more precise that should be 'easier' to replace – nothing in my size is all that easy to get. Once free of the oppressive garment I look around the room. Everything is very different from a wolf's perspective of the world. For one thing, everything is bigger – a lot bigger.

I hate this feeling; I hate these horrible, cursed nights! So often I wonder why – why me? Why do these things always have to happen to me? There's no cure; no antidote or spell to counteract the curse. Once a month I become a monster and am bound in that form till the following dawn. And people wonder why I choose not to have friends or a wife! You think I'd still be single if I thought it was possible…? I only thank God that I am able to keep my human brain – Lord knows what'd happen if I couldn't! To have a raging, murdering beast in the heart of a city, killing and spreading the disease… I shudder to think.

There are some advantages though, especially for someone who is a detective. Dogs, unlike humans, have a highly developed sense of smell. In fact to tell the truth dogs almost see the world entirely in smells and, as I soon found out, this can be a very handy tool in my work. Whereas my human self might not be able to immediately guess the culprit of a robbery by surveying an empty room, my canine self would be able to tell you height, shoe size, what brand of foul tobacco he chews and what he last ate for breakfast.

I can also smell which way they went.

It's no coincidence that my career began to pick up after the transformations began. True, I was bloody good at what I did beforehand; but now I'm even better.

Another thing I should tell you is that I can, on occasions, change into a wolf when it is not full moon. It hurts, but that's the job. It's just the times that I have no control over I detest. If I am dealing with a particularly difficult case I always return the evening afterwards and give it the once over with my nose to pick up any new information. Tonight I'm off to a scene that occurred the night before; a hostage taking of a bourgeois gentleman by the gang known as Patron-Minette which took place in a building commonly known as the Gorbeau Tenement. After a tip-off from a resident my men and I arrived to find the entire gang (and more) clustered in one room, red handed. It was such an achievement, such a brilliant piece of work!

Except one thing. The gentleman who had been taken hostage had disappeared; disappeared in the way only the guilty disappear – out the window. I'm going back tonight to see if I can learn anything more of this man.

I trot into the bedroom, jumping up on the bed, onto the chest of drawers and then out the back window that I left ajar. From there I work my way down to the ground by a series of ledges, roofs and outhouses. I quickly make my way through the backstreets, heading in the direction of the Boulevard de l'Hôpital. The night is clear and calm, hardly anyone about. From time to time I pass by the odd gamin, prostitute or drunk; but they are either looking the other way, engaged in plying their trade or so far gone that it doesn't really matter whether they see me or not.

Before long I am standing before the Gorbeau Tenement. Nine years ago I chased an escaped convict named Jean Valjean from this very place, and it wasn't much better then than it is now. A sorry excuse for a building; a pile of rubble and decaying wood, broken glass, crumbling mortar and peeling paint. I think the only thing holding it all together are the cobwebs. Mind you, the state of neglect is at this moment an advantage; it should be easy for me to find a way in. Now, if memory serves me correctly I observed a broken downstairs window… ah yes, here we are!

Sliding in through what appears to be some kind of lumber room I make my way to the main stairs. All is quiet inside the house – more so because the only occupants would now be the concierge, that fool of a lawyer boy (if by some miracle he's had enough courage to come back)… and the rats. The whole place stinks of rats. Up the stairs along the corridor, now to the room at the far end. I place a paw against the door and it swings back easily, hinges giving the slightest of squeaks. Padding into the room everything is dark and gloomy, the wind rattling the grubby pains of glass in the window. To work.

I start sniffing around, getting my bearings. My men have been all over the shop since; I can even recognise my own scent amongst them. What I see corresponds with what I saw last night. Nine men, one woman; seven of which definite members of Patron-Minette. The eighth man, Jondrette, I have not known to be associated with the group before, but to be on such good terms with the likes of Montparnasse and Brujon he would have to have had dealings with them in the past. I swear I've seen his face before… Must remember to look him up tomorrow. The woman I am not concerned about; just some mad old bat with the face and figure of a newspaper caricature who tried to hit me with a paving slab. I'm used to people wanting to knock five kinds of brick dust out of me, but I must admit they usually tend to be male. Mind you, if the moustache on her face is anything to go by I _might_ be dealing with a man…

Now, onto the 'victim'.

I go over to the bed where he was restrained, trying to pick out something from the 'parfum' de sergeants-de-ville. I must tell Gilbien to stop smoking such a strong tobacco – I've smelt sweeter in a cesspit! From the general background I manage to distinguish a single scent that is neither thief nor cop. Got you. All details are confirmed, along with the extra information that he tends to wear a splash of musk and has recently trod in something interesting. But, wait a minute; I know this scent. I've smelt it somewhere before...

Valjean… It can't be…! But how could I have been in the same room and not recognised him? I could kick myself! Last time I saw him was when he gave me the slip in the cul-de-sac Genrot. I'll never forget it; an achingly embarrassing dent in my pride to see the sergeants barely trying to repress their sniggers. That time I had him cornered, and yet he disappeared as if by magic. The following evening I returned to smell that he had not (as in despair I was willing to believe the night before) vanished on the spot, but hopped over the wall into the convent of Petit Picpus. Frustratingly the nuns would not allow my men to search the premises, and there was no way I could get in covertly – so the scent went cold, and has been cold for nine years. But he'll not escape this time. This time there are no nuns, no garden walls, no half lit chases & confused recognition; this time he's on foot, running and he's mine!

If I could smile now I would be smiling – I would also be laughing my head off.

I am out the door like a flash, giddy as a schoolboy, feeling very much as if I'm walking on air. Valjean! No wonder he bolted so quickly! That'll teach Beauvet to say I'm off my rocker! Ha! _"Je cherche fortune autour du Chat Noir, au clair de la lune, à Montmartre!..."_

Down the stairs, through the lumber room, out the window and into the streets!

"…_La lune était plus sombre, en haut les chats braillaient, quand j'aperçus, dans l'ombre, deux grands yeux qui brillaient..." _

I pick up the scent round the back of the house. It leads north to the River. I follow. My journey takes me through various back streets and boulevards, over the Seine, through alleyways and into the district of finer houses.

"_...Une voix de rogomme me cria: Nom d'un chien! Je vous y prends, jeune homme, que faites-vous ? – Moi... rien..."_

All around me are the sights and smells of the city at night. Hundreds of things to be explored… But there is only one thing that interests me tonight. The hunter has caught sight of the prey, and I'm damned if I'm going to lose him again!

Sometime after I have been going I turn the corner into an alleyway – slightly more run down and filthy than it surroundings – and as I enter I see a pile of old rags on the floor pushed up against a wall. On top is a dog. A bitch. Something of a collie – quite pretty really; deep green eyes and a beautiful, blonde coat, if slightly grubby. She is in heat. My noise seems to have woken her and she lifts her head, gazing around drowsily. At the sight of me her face lights up.

"Hello, dark eyes," she says. "You coming my way?"

She half gets up to come over to me, tail wagging; but I shake my head and keep going, not giving her a second glance.

"Not tonight, cherie," I say. "Not tonight."

She looks slightly hurt and settles back down again as I turn into the next street. That's one thing I've sworn never to do. As a dog I may foul the pavements, sniff around in rubbish piles, pee up against lampposts and clean myself off with my tongue; but I draw the line at having a litter of puppies to my name! Buggery is against the law and the law effects me whatever shape or form I am in – even if my shape happens to be that of a dog.

The scent is getting stronger now, criss-crossed by a load of other trails belonging to the same man – some of them very recent. I must be getting close; he must live somewhere nearby or at least frequent here very often. I look around trying to get my bearings; to find a street sign or a monument that will give me some idea of where I am. I catch sight of a sign. Rue Plumet. The scent leads that way. I am about to follow when I spot a movement out of the corner of my eye that makes me stop in my tracks.

Standing not far away, half in shadows is a figure slouched against the wall – a cap pulled low over his face, dishevelled workers' clothes. I have seen that same man before; seen that slouch and petty attempt to shade the face.

Vidocq smiles at me.

"Well, what have we here?"

For a moment I stand frozen, watching him watching me. He seems not to be doing anything – a perfectly harmless loiterer; but that's never the case with Vidocq. Vidocq never does anything without intent. Sensing that I may have unwittingly stumbled into the middle of something I decide to make myself scarce, moving on in the direction of the rue Plumet. Just as I am leaving though Vidocq gives a whistle and holds out his hand enticingly in my direction.

"Here boy! Hey there; what you doing, eh?"

At this I stop rigid. 'Boy'? Surely he can't be talking to me!

"Come on then! Don't you want to say hello?"

Not if you're going to call me 'boy' I'm not. I've never been so insulted!

"Come on! I won't bite – honest."

Yeah, but call me 'boy' once more and I might. I start to move off again, but still he persists.

"Not very friendly, are you?"

Nope.

"Sure you don't want to say hello?"

Would I be walking away if I did? People are so thick at times. If they could only hear themselves… Anyway, I can't hang around for you – I have work to do; and don't you as well? Seemingly defeated, Vidocq shrugs theatrically and gives a loud sigh.

"Very well then; I just suppose I'll have to keep all of this for myself!"

He takes a white paper bag out of his jacket and opens it slowly, making sure that I can hear the emphasized rustling. As if I'm going to be attracted by the sound of paper! But, but wait a minute; I… I can smell… something…

Ohhhohhh… He's got aniseed! _Real_ aniseed! Woohoo! Oh _yes!_

NO! Calm down, Javert – remember you're an officer of the police and you've got a duty to fulfil…

Who gives a toss? I'm not on duty!

TOMORROW! Think of what state you'll be in tomorrow!

…but, but it's aniseed!

You've got to find Valjean, remember?

Who?

Valjean! NO! Bad inspector! No aniseed!

Too late!

I do a U-turn and trot back very quickly to Vidocq, sitting myself down in front of him; tail wagging.

"Thought you wouldn't be able to resist," he says, smiling.

What did you think I'd do? Fair cop – now hand over!

"Now what's a boy like you doing out here all by yourself and in the middle of Paris?"

Sitting here waiting for you to give me some aniseed! My tail is doing about 90 to the dozen. My long pink tongue is hanging out of my mouth and my thin sides are heaving with the ferocity of my panting.

"I mean, it's not as if wolves are common in cities…"

Just bring that bag a little lower, a little lower so I can reach it… there's a good chief of secret police…

"You want this, do you?" he asks, indicating to the bag, giving it a playful rustle.

Why the hell do you think I'm here? This is torture! I let out a pitiful whine and look at the bag pleadingly. At this Vidocq laughs and scratches behind my ears in a patronising way.

"Oh dear; it really is hook, line and sinker, isn't it? You really should be more careful, inspector."

Ha, easy for you to say – you… just called me 'inspector'. I look up at him in shock, my eyes wide. He is smiling smugly now, a look of triumph radiating from his face.

"Working a little overtime, are we?"

Fear courses through my veins and I turn and bolt. Shit! Oh shit! What is going on? How did he know? How does he know? Help! Oh God, help me! I do not know where I am running; I just know that I have to run. My mind is in a whirl. Why did he do that? Why? That was cruel, that was evil! I wasn't doing any harm – I've never done any harm!

He didn't even give me any aniseed.

SHUT UP ABOUT THE FUCKING ANISEED! Jesus, get a grip!

Oh hell. If I had stayed there he might have thought he was wrong, but to run… oh bloody, bloody hell! But…why? To have been there at the right time, right place and with a bag of aniseed he must have been planning this. But how did he know I was going to be there? _I_ didn't know where I was going tonight until I found Valjean's trail! He must have followed me. But why? No one believes in… in this stuff. I mean, _really_ believes in it. No one normal. How? Why? What for? I can't think… Just get home, get home and sleep it off. Maybe it will have all been a bad dream and by tomorrow it will be better.

Yeah, right.

I don't remember how I get home, I only remember climbing up the outhouse, going along the ledge and then in through the bedroom window. Once inside I go and lay down on the rug in front of the fireplace. I didn't get a chance to light a fire, so it's not going to be as comfortable as usual; but I 'spose I'll have to make the best of it. I curl up in a ball and try to get to sleep, but the night's events keep flashing through my mind. _How did he know…?_

---------

I wake up shivering. It's early morning and I'm lying stretched out on the floor. Naked. Ohhh… my head! It's so cold…

I get up somewhat stiffly and meander into the bedroom, pulling the sheets back and sliding between the covers for a moment to try and get warm. Why on earth didn't I think to light a fire last night? I must have been late or something…

It is then that memory and migraine hits me like a brick wall; so hard, in fact, that if I had been standing up the force would probably have knocked me over. Lying down as I am, I curl up in a ball, head in my hands and moan. I had been late, my landlady very near rumbled me, Vidocq managed to bait me with a bag of aniseed, and to cap it all I lost Valjean. I also have the feeling I might have mated with a collie as well. Oh, no I didn't. That's a relief. Not much, but a relief.

Several minutes pass before I can bring myself to do anything else except lie there. Eventually I manage to drag myself out of bed and go over to the washbasin, glancing in the mirror as I do so. God I look awful! I don't think I've ever seen anyone looking so rat-arsed in my life! Not much I can do about it though – except shave. I begin my morning routine, focussing my mind on the day ahead, desperately trying not to think about last night. I do fairly well until I look out the window and see that it's raining. Great. Any trace of Valjean that might still have been left will be completely obliterated. Too exhausted to be frustrated, I merely add this on the list of last night's failures and proceed to get dressed. I'll fret later when I have more energy – right now I can't be bothered.

About half an hour later I arrive at the police post fully dressed, ready(ish) for the day ahead and having escaped with only a few tutting remarks from the concierge. As I make my way to the office several of the officers present give me worried and inquisitive glances. I can't blame them – I probably look like something dredged up from the bottom of the River. It still annoys me though, my temper being shorter than usual this morning, and their curiosity is met by one of my more severe glares. They return to their work.

One of the more serious drawbacks of these transformations is that it requires a hell of a lot of energy – I have heard tell of people in the past dying because of a transformation occurring during periods of prolonged illness or starvation. I'm fairly safe in both these stakes; but depending on how hard I have been working at the time the full moon can sometimes lay me flat for a couple of days.

Entering the office I take off my hat and greatcoat, lay down my nightstick, shut the door firmly and sit down at the desk with a heavy sigh. In front of me sits a number of files in a state of organised chaos. Thinking back to the night before I open the top one and find the notes I was working on, totalling about one and a half sides at the moment. I may detest paperwork with a vengeance; but one thing I pride myself on is my thoroughness.

Lord, I'm so tired.

Now come on, Javert; snap out of it and get on. The sooner it's out the way the better. Right. Yes. Now then, where was I? '…actions that resulted in…' In what? I close my eyes and try to recall the details from yesterday, visualising the scene.

Ah yes, that's it…

I jerk awake, lifting my head from where I have slumped forward onto the desk. Something flicked my ear, and when I look up I can see Vidocq standing on the opposite side of the desk, smiling.

"Sleeping on the job are we, Javert? Not like you."

"Sorry," I begin to say, but it turns into a yawn. Stealing a glance at the clock on the wall, I see that I have been asleep for at least an hour. Ye gods! Why didn't someone come in and wake me sooner? Why did I let myself fall asleep in the first place? I feel the side of my face, which has gone numb, to find a line imprinted across my flesh where I'd been resting against the edge of the desk. Vidocq is looking at me with some concern.

"Are you sure you should be here? You look terrible."

"I'm alright."

"Really? You've been looking rather thin recently; you sure you're eating enough?"

"No, no, I'm fine; I just... had a late night."

I meet his gaze as I say this and see his expression is now deadly serious. What's he doing here anyway? I wasn't meant to be meeting him today. At least I don't think so.

"Ah, yes," he says, quietly. "Your 'late night'. That is what I came to discuss."

Something suddenly clicks in the back of my memory and a sense of dread washes over me. He perches on the desk, not taking his eyes off me.

"Tell me, Javert, how long has this been going on?"

"Has what been going on?" I answer back levelly, reasoning the best defence in this situation would be outright denial.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I'm sure I don't."

"I see. Is amnesia usually part of this… condition?"

"What condition would that be?"

"Fine then," he says, shifting his position slightly. "Let me tell you. You will remember a time you refused to go on an assignment for me one night – about two months ago? I received quite a flat refusal as far as I recall. You know I like to keep a close check on my agents, and after this quite frankly odd behaviour I had you placed under surveillance. However, the man who I had assigned to you came back one morning gibbering like a lunatic and looking as if he'd seen a ghost."

There is a tense silence as I keep my eyes locked with his – no discernable emotion on my face.

"Poor fellow," he says quietly, continuing to meet my gaze with one equally as calm and unperturbed. "I had to send him away on a month's holiday before he was in any fit state to return to his duties. Naturally I had to see what had so upset him, so the next time you were off I went to observe myself. I took a room in the building opposite your apartment, Javert, and with the aid of a spyglass I had an excellent view into your rooms."

My fury cannot be described. How dare he? How dare he spy on me! I can feel a twitch developing in the muscle of my right cheek. Vidocq continues speaking.

"You cannot have imagined my surprise when, after lighting a fire and leaving the bedroom window ajar, I see my Inspector First Class strip off completely and stand in the middle of the room naked,"

What business of his is it what I do in my own home? What gives him the right to cast his filthy eyes on me? Right now I just want to wrap my hands around his throat and wring his neck. I could probably snap it in one go.

"And you also cannot imagine my horror when I see him bend double in pain, start to sweat and shake as if having a fit, and then to see hair sprouting from every part of his skin and his body most grotesquely changing shape…"

No, better still I could just bite you and let you live with the same curse as me; then we'll see if you feel so superior!

"…into that of a wolf."

Another silence hangs in the air as his words settle. Throughout his narrative my expression has not changed one bit. I might be mistaken, however, as he is now looking at me and frowning.

"Are you certain you're alright, Javert? You look displeased."

"I think I should be asking _you_," I say quietly, my voice shaking slightly from the effort of controlling myself. "I think you are mad to believe in such things. I think you are the one who is gibbering like a lunatic – I think the night was playing tricks on your mind."

"I think I know what I saw, Javert," says Vidocq, leaning closer. "And what confronts me now is the question of what to do about it."

"About what?"

"About the fact the man sitting opposite me is in fact a werewolf."

At this I let out a hollow laugh. Vidocq frowns and draws back again.

"This is serious, Javert."

"Indeed? Next you'll be telling me M. Gisquet is a vampire."

Unfortunately it is at this point that my headache decides to return tenfold, pretty much ruining the effect of the previous sentence. Luckily Vidocq manages to catch me before I fall off my chair.

"You really shouldn't be here," he says, helping me back onto the chair. "Why don't you go home, get some rest? It won't do you any good to stay."

Images of me lying in bed like an invalid being fussed over by my landlady flash through my head, sparking a flutter of panic in my breast.

"No, I'm fine," I protest; somewhat weakly though, as my head is still throbbing. "It'll pass. I have… things to do here –"

"If you're going to be doing this all day I don't see how you'll manage to get them done!" Vidocq says severely. "I'm ordering you home, Javert – and stay there until you're well enough to come back and not keel over every five minutes."

I look at his face, my expression burning into his eyes.

"Damn you, Eugène!"

"Most likely I am," he says indifferently. "Now go; before I have to remove you."

I have no choice but to get up and leave – that or be made to look like a complete idiot in front of the men. Giving him a very dirty look I reluctantly heave myself out of the chair (somewhat unsteadily), don my greatcoat, pick up my hat and nightstick and am about to go out the door when Vidocq's voice holds me back.

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot,"

I turn to look back at Vidocq. For some reason there is a sly smile playing on his lips. Slowly, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a white paper bag and gives it a playful rustle. A very familiar white paper bag. I wince slightly. His glee at my reaction obvious, the smile spreads to a grin.

"A little present."

I stare blankly. This is too much! I feel like I just want to break down and weep. You evil, sadistic person, Eugène! I can't deal with it; I just can't! Not on top of everything else; not on top of losing Valjean! I fix him with a cold glare, making the slightest inclination of my head.

"Good day, monsieur."

And I slam the door behind me.

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** A note on "Le Chat Noir"; I haven't got the faintest idea when the damn thing was written. As far as I know it was a popular music hall song in 1884, but it also said "Traditional". Seeming as "Traditional" can mean anything, I have taken a huge liberty in putting it in. Don't stone me; I just like the words.


	2. Phases of the Moon

**A/N:** Not a one-off. I lied. Sorry, I couldn't resist. Notice to readers: If this doesn't go well I reserve the right to delete all but the original post and pretend the other chapters never happened. I'm still exceptionally wary about writing Vidocq – this guy puts me on edge. Oh, and _PLEASE_ R&R – If people nag me for updates then they might as well review.

* * *

2. Phases of the Moon

I slam the door to the tenement behind me and sweep up the stairs, ignoring the nagging remarks the concierge begins to rain on me as soon as I am over the threshold. I reach my apartment on the third floor, take out the key, violently shoving it into the lock. Once inside I fling off my coat and hat, throw my cane on the floor and slam the door pointedly, cutting off the echoing screeches of the old woman. Immediately I begin pacing. Damn you, Eugène! Damn you! Why couldn't he have left me alone? Why does he have to poke his nose into everything? Why couldn't he leave me alone? Just leave me alone?

There is a knock at the door.

"Monsieur –"

"Leave me alone!" I manage to catch myself before I add on 'you interfering old witch'.

There is a sharp 'eep!' from the other side of the door, then the sound of rustling skirts and footsteps across the landing retreating down the stairs.

"_Mercy, the boy's mad! Never been so sharp! My poor boy, my poor boy! Oh! Oh…!"_

Too frustrated to take note of her words I continue pacing a few minutes more before I slump down at the table, running a hand through my hair and sighing heavily. What is going on? What can I do? My head is buzzing… Everything has gone wrong; Gorbeau, last night, Valjean, Vidocq, bloody Patron-Minette! Now my secret is out, and I start keeling over at work! This has never happened before; not in twenty-eight years! I've been so careful…! No, calm down. Since when has worrying ever got you anywhere? I lean back and sigh once again, undoing the buttons of my jacket, loosening my cravat and removing the leather stock from my neck. No, worrying never got anyone anywhere. If they're going to come around with the torches and pitchforks they'll do it anyway; nothing I can do about it! At worst I'll be dismissed; there's no way Vidocq would be so stupid as to start telling tall stories, he knows some'd use any excuse to have him out on his ear. Besides, who'd believe him? So far he's the only witness; him and a lunatic agent, and there's no way I'd admit that I was… I was… having trouble. God, I need to sleep…

I absent-mindedly pull out my pocket watch to check the time, only to drop it immediately at the stinging sensation in my fingers. _Idiot!_ Irony of ironies isn't it? First and only time a superior officer rewards me for my work and he gives me a _silver_ watch. It took a lot of willpower to smile gratefully whilst the damn thing was burning into my palm; my hand was bandaged for weeks. Now encasing my hand in the handkerchief I keep in that pocket I pick up the watch again. Eleven. It's only eleven o'clock. This is an annoying and also slightly unsettling development. I've never had so much free time to myself in one go; I'm at quite a loss as to what to do. I probably should rest, but the idea of staying cooped up in here all day, inactive, is highly unappealing. Mind you, knowing Vidocq he's most likely already made 'arrangements', so there'll be no working on the quiet. Damn.

I look out of the window across to the next building where only the evening before Vidocq had been watching me. Once again a wave of anger rises in me, my face contorting into a frown as I once more cast my mind back to the events of last night; of the triumphant smirk on his face when he baited me, of the way he laughed and petted me as if I were some domesticated puppy, the humiliation of being seen to be afflicted by this hideous curse… _Spy on me, would he?_

First thing I'll do is put up some blasted curtains!

---------

The day has gone surprisingly quickly. Putting up the curtains helped relieve the tedium, I suppose. After that my time was occupied with odd jobs, such as mending the bedroom door, fixing the shelf; the kind of things that are easy enough to sort out but just as easily overlooked. I stopped at about seven to eat supper. It's now nine thirty. I let out a yawn, leaning back in the chair and stretching, rubbing my eyes as I do so. I place the book I was reading face down on the table; a book on chemistry. I don't know why I bought it really, I suppose for the reading practice. I don't pretend to understand half the things in there. Getting up somewhat stiffly, I go into the bedroom.

Swiftly I get ready for bed, changing into my nightshirt, taking the ribbon out of my hair, folding my clothes over the chair ready for the next day. It's still early in the evening, but I really don't feel like doing anything else today. Slipping in between the covers I omit a huge sigh, letting all my muscles relax simultaneously against the mattress. Sometimes, like tonight, I do get the chance of a real sleep; but far too rarely. Instant sleep, to close your eyes only to open them again what seems like seconds later, is not restful in any way. It is, however, what I exist on. But tonight I will have the chance to dream, to experience oblivion and be able to remember how good it felt when I wake up the next day. After all that's happened I think I've earned it.

Lying on my back I take a few deep, slow breaths, gently inhaling the familiar scent of my pillow. I lay there for a while, my gaze looking out of the window at the moon above as it slides in and out between the clouds. Odd to think something so beautiful capable of inflicting so much pain... Slowly I close my eyes and roll onto my side, stretching my back muscles with a slight movement of my shoulders. I slow my breathing even more, allowing my thoughts to drift, and my mind to drift with them. For a few hours, a few glorious hours, the world will just slip away…

I wake up with a start. The room is dark and quiet, the silvery light of the moon casting vague shadows on the dull whitewashed walls. I glance at the pocket watch which lays glinting on the cabinet beside the bed. Midnight. For a moment I stay sitting, straining my ears to listen to the indistinct sounds of the night. I cannot think what has woken me. Outside all is peace and quiet; inside there is nothing but stillness. It wasn't the dream I was having either, although I must admit that wasn't one of the most pleasant experiences I've ever had in my life. Shrugging it off as nothing but nerves, I go to settle back down to sleep… only to feel my guts knot together violently.

I gasp from the sudden sensation, a wave of strong nausea sweeping through my body. _What_ was that? I barely have time to consider this question before I am forced to bend double; my stomach feeling as if it's been turned inside out. My hands begin to shake, fine perspiration breaking out all over my skin.

No… it can't be! But I've already done this!

The tail shoots out from the base of my spine, so fast that it bends into an awkward angle against the mattress sending extra shots of pain through my already agonised body.

No, this can't happen! It can't; I went through all this last night! Stop!

But nothing will halt the changes when they come. Nothing. In panic I tear off my nightshirt just as my ribs push outwards; I feel my chest is about to explode! I can hear the sickening crunching sound of my bones moving as shoulders are pulled back and narrow, blinding white-hot pain searing across my vision, fur sweeping down over my arms and belly.

No! Stop!_ Stop it!_

Senses on overload, unable to comprehend anything that is happening, fingernails elongating into claws... My body feels as if it's on fire, every tendon and ligament straining, my pelvis and spine being twisted into God knows what shape. I throw back my head, my misted eyes just able to make out the glowing red orb that is the full moon. For some reason my gaze then snatches to my right, to the mirror where I can see…!

I open my mouth, and I scream.

---------

_Vidocq._

The desk is empty. The room is dark, the blinds drawn and the fire in the grate hasn't been lit in a day. Disappointed, I walk back into the main office of the post, closing the door to Javert's broom cupboard behind me.

"Did you find what you were looking for, sir?" asks the duty sergeant as I go to leave.

"No. I'm looking for Inspector Javert; do you know where I can find him?"

"'Fraid not, sir; haven't seen him since yesterday."

"He hasn't reported in at all today?"

"No, monsieur."

He's not due out on patrol; that I know for sure, and he's definitely not on surveillance. So why's he not here? Maybe he stayed home; the state he was in yesterday would make it the most likely explanation. Maybe he's finally accepted that he _does_ need to rest now and again.

No, don't be daft; this is _Javert_ we're talking about. He'd probably drag himself here if he had to, or at least die trying… Oh.

"Problem, sir?"

"There may be," I say. "There very well may be."

I turn and leave the post, heading in the direction of the Petite rue Sainte-Anne.


	3. Always Check the Cutlery

**28/03/06** – **NOTICE TO READERS:** _Forget about the witch thing!_ It's been removed, it's gone, I spit on it! Sorry to muck you around like this, but I'm in rehab for addiction to exposition. I won't let it happen again.

**A/N:** Longer chapter this time. There is a plot in here, honest… somewhere. It's likely to get a lot weirder from now on – continue _at your own peril_. Now, let's see if I get this right… reviews : me : aniseed : wolf-Javert. Correct?

P.S. According to AmZ, in the 1820's Vidocq was rumoured to be a shape shift… only he was supposed to be a 'were-bale-of-hay'. Go figure.

* * *

3. Always Check the Cutlery

I arrive at the house on the Petite rue Sainte-Anne and let myself in. In find a couple of the lads lounging in the kitchen, other than that there seems to be no one else about. I disappear up the stairs to the office and close the door behind me. Once inside my nostrils are greeted by the familiar musty smell of ink and mould. The room is quite small and full of paperwork, therefore generating the feeling of a graveyard for unnecessary bureaucracy. Home sweet home.

A sudden scurrying amongst the paperwork grabs my attention. I turn to catch a slight movement along the top of the desk; something furry and mousey-brown… except it's a lot bigger than a mouse. With a sigh I take off my hat and dump it on a nearby pile of papers.

"Come out, Simon."

The boy crouching behind the desk straightens up slowly, giving the impression of a rather skinny jack-in-the-box with a rusty spring.

"Sorry, Eugène."

"You know I don't like it when you do that."

"Sorry, Eugène."

"Why do you hide when I come in anyway? This house is secure; there's nothing here to be afraid of."

Simon hangs his head and shuffles his feet, murmuring silently. It's always a bad sign when he does this; it means something is troubling him, but he'll never tell me what it is. Letting out another sigh I sit down in the chair at the desk.

"Just… don't do it again."

"Yes, Eugène."

Knowing I won't get any more response than this, I pick up the newspaper that is lying on the desk and begin to read as Simon returns to his filing.

"Is Mme. Martel looking after you well?"

"Yes, Eugène."

"Is she feeding you alright?"

"Yes, Eugène."

Trying to start a conversation with the boy is like flogging a dead horse. Javert doesn't approve of my taking him in; for some reason Simon's very presence seems to make him irritable… more irritable than usual. Perhaps he sees himself too much in the boy? However, he does accept that if I hadn't collared him someone else would have, and to that end it's probably better he stays with us. The boy shows promise; too much to be left as a loose cannon. For now I have to put up with his overly neat habits and tendency to get under my feet; on the other hand, though, it does mean that I have someone to keep track of the paperwork and take down letters on site all the time. What's more, I don't have to pay him.

Simon is one of the more curious creatures I've come across. Pale, gaunt and skinny, he's more a shadow of a boy than a living human being. The ingrained dirt of the street seems to cling to him and his clothes no matter how much he washes, giving him a sort of light grey tinge. Not interested in women, or men as a matter of fact; though I estimate he'll discover one or the other in a few years, if not sooner. I have no idea what happened to his parents or where he comes from; he's mainly survived on charity from various Church institutes, and seems to have gleaned a fairly decent education along the way. I'm not all that sure of his age either. He just seems to have been born out of the street, and most likely at death he will return to the street as well.

After a few minutes more of silence, punctuated only by the rustling of paper, I put down the newspaper and lift my head to stare at the ceiling.

"Simon,"

"Yes, Eugène?"

"Remember I assigned someone to watch Javert last night?"

"Yes, Eugène."

"Who did I end up appointing?"

"Dacquin," he says, his attention almost solely concentrated on shuffling papers into order. "He was the only one that was free."

"I remember," It's been a busy time these past few weeks; I'm surprised I had a man free at all. "Has he reported in yet?"

"Last night; eleven, I think it was."

It's unusual for one of the men to report back so early; which usually means that something's gone wrong.

"Which one's Javert, again?"

"The tall dark one," I say offhand, frowning as I try to think what might have caused Dacquin to leave so early. "Otherwise known as the Inspector."

"Oh. Right."

"He didn't say anything was up, did he?"

"No, I would have told you."

Yes, you would have, wouldn't you. The lapse in time, if not Javert's absence, needs to be dealt with; and personally. The sooner the better.

"Get a message to Dacquin," I say, standing up, putting on my jacket and reaching for my hat. "'Meet in an hour. Usual place'."

An hour and a half later I am sitting in the backroom of a tavern with Dacquin, Dacquin knocking back cheap wine whilst I conduct the interview.

"So where did he go after that?"

"Out," says Dacquin simply. "Visited a few shops, nowhere special; a draper's and household goods."

"What did he want from there?"

"Curtains," says Dacquin, draining his mug. "He's put curtains up in the living room."

I let a smile curl at my lips. Ah, dear old Javert; always bolting the door after the equine has vanished. "And supposedly in the bedroom as well?"

"Nah. Left that alone."

Logical. From what I've seen he never… changes in the bedroom. "And then?"

"Well, that took until about four, then after that he pulled the curtains, so I couldn't see what he was doing. Must've known I was watching; wasn't even dark! He didn't leave the house, though, that's for sure."

"Did anyone go in?"

"'Part from the other lodgers and that mad bint who runs the place, nah. No one we know." Here he paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "What do you think he's up to?"

I had expected such a question, but as of yet I have not been able to come up with a satisfactory answer. What _was_ I actually having him watched for? See that he stayed home whilst ill? Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid? Stop him from leaving if he chooses to run? None of these would sit with Dacquin, or anyone else for that matter; let alone mention the werewolf factor. The problem is that I can't think of some sufficiently sinister reason without it sounding completely out of character. And besides, why should I tell him?

"What was he doing when you left him?" I ask, ignoring his question.

Dacquin shrugs as if to say 'Fine, if you don't want to tell me…', picking up his mug and taking another sip.

"Sleeping by the looks of it. He'd already gone to bed by quarter to ten. I left him 'bout eleven."

"You've not been back this morning?"

"No, I got a bit… side-tracked."

Side-tracked. Right. I don't think I need to ask what the 'side-tracked' was. Dacquin being Dacquin it'd probably be in the region of the rue de Lanneau, and we all know what _that_ means, don't we?

"I see," I say slowly. I'll leave the reprimand till later. "But you're certain he didn't leave?"

"Positive!"

God knows where he'll be this morning then. I should go round to his apartment and check if anyone's there; that'll do for a start.

"Do you want me to go round there again?" asks Dacquin.

"No," I say shortly. It seems if you want something done round here you have to do it yourself. "I'll go. I will, however, see you later this afternoon. I have a few things to attend to before that."

Leaving Dacquin to finish drinking, I make my way from the tavern, heading in the direction of the street where Javert keeps his rooms. As I walk down the boulevard my eyes catch a sign above a shop front. No harm in going prepared… I leave the pavement, crossing the road and make my way into the shop, the ancient bell jangling reluctantly as the door closes behind me. For a moment I stand taking in the gleaming displays of neatly positioned cutlery on and behind the counter, and a few minutes later there sounds a wheezy cough from somewhere in the recesses of the shop.

From out of the back room emerges a fairly elderly shop assistant. He looks at me disdainfully through his spectacles as he takes in my somewhat dishevelled appearance. His disapproval made clear, he eventually sees fit to address me in a reedy voice.

"Can I help you… sir?"

I take a few steps towards the counter and pick up a teaspoon from the display, admiring it.

"Yes. How much for this?"

The man wrinkles his nose slightly, drawing in air noisily through two great hairy nostrils.

"I doubt sir would be able to afford any of our… products."

I smile sweetly at the old man.

"Try me."

His eyes widen slightly at my expression. However, he soon recovers, his shopkeeper's instincts of 'sell or throw out' kicking in. He clears his throat, and once more continues in his impersonation of a defunct oboe.

"Well, sir… a very fine choice; a very _expensive_ choice –"

"Silver, am I not correct?"

"Yes, sir; the finest… imported from –"

"Excellent! How much?"

The shopkeeper looks at me blankly.

"Well… eeh… does sir wish to purchase the standard twenty-four, forty-eight or –"

"No, just this," I say, holding up the spoon cheerfully.

He blinks.

"Only the spoon, sir?"

"Yes; I don't get many visitors."

The man continues to stare, trying to come to grips with the fact he hasn't needed to use any sales technique to sell something, or that someone would come into a cutler's wanting to buy only a teaspoon. Amusing as it is to watch him wrestle with the situation, I can't stand here all day. Shame.

"Fifteen francs? Twenty? Here, take these," I press some notes in his startled hand. "Thank you very much; excellent service! I'll remember to recommend you to my mother when she's next in town. Good day!"

Having succeeded in thoroughly bewildering the man, I leave the shop, concealing the teaspoon inside my jacket as I go. Javert's apartment is not far from here now; about five minutes' walk. Before long I am standing in the deserted hall of the tenement. Judging by the suffocatingly still atmosphere of the place, there doesn't seem to be anyone about. Or maybe not. Gradually, I become aware of a soft sobbing noise coming from what I assume is the concierge's sitting room. Cautiously, I knock on the door. A minute or so later a rather elderly lady opens the door, clutching a hanky and a scrumpled up piece of paper.

"Uh, good morning, madame," I say, touching my cap. "I was wondering if you knew whether the Inspector was in."

Much to my surprise the woman starts bawling her eyes out anew, weeping into her hanky.

"Is he in? Is he dying! My boy! My poor boy! He's going to leave again! He's already left me once! See!"

She shoves the piece of paper into my hand, and I can now see that it's a letter. I may not be able to spell or write worth a damn, but thank God I took some time to learn to read! The letter is old and yellowed; it looks as it's been crumpled, smoothed out and crumpled again several times. Cheaply printed in black and officially stamped with the gaps left for the name and date written in blue ink by hand, but still legible;

"_18th September, 1812_

_Madame_

The Emperor regrets to inform you that your son, _Jacques Mathias_, was killed in action on _14th September, 1812_ whilst attempting to rescue an injured comrade."

A standard letter, filled in carelessly by an officer who has just written hundreds of similar documents beforehand and, knowing the war of 1812, probably had hundreds more to do afterwards as well.

"It was nice of the Emperor to tell me," the woman sniffs, wringing the handkerchief in her hands. "Very thoughtful, nice of him to take the trouble. I didn't believe it though. "He's dead!" they told me. "Accept he's never coming back!" But I never did, I knew he would not leave his poor mother! And I was right! One night he turns up on my doorstep with only one portmanteau, calling himself 'M. Javert', says he's a policeman, and asks for a room! I recognised him at once – of course I would recognise my own son! It is him, isn't it? I knew it in an instant! But he didn't recognise me; didn't recognise his own mother! I thought he's probably had a blow to the head and forgotten, so I'll play along; but now he's ill! Seriously ill! Never listens to his poor mother, works himself into the ground! I try to fetch a doctor but he shouts and locks himself in his rooms! It'll be the death of him!"

Suddenly she snatches the letter out of my grasp, runs back into her sitting room and shuts the door behind her with a snap. I am left standing fairly bewildered in the hallway, listening to her weeping and howling on the other side of the door. Javert was not exaggerating; the woman is demented, but I don't think even he's realised exactly _how_ demented. I wonder if I should tell him? Probably best not to; he'd be frightened out of his wits if I did. That or not believe me. If he did believe me he will have moved by the end of the day. I wouldn't want to do that to him.

Heaving a sigh, I begin my ascension to the third floor. I reach his apartment and hesitantly rap my knuckles against the door, only to find it swing open on its hinges with an almost inaudible squeak. Not a good sign. Not good at all. Stepping inside, I find the room in chaos; chairs and table overturned, coals scattered all over the floor from the exceedingly battered fire bucket, here and there on the floorboards and furniture I can see scratches in the woodwork… scratches that look suspiciously like claw marks. I turn to see the back of the door is covered in them. The door that leads into the bedroom is ajar. Carefully, I make my way across the floor and poke my head into the room.

Javert is lying on the bed. Naked. Asleep by the looks of it. On his front, thank God, but still not exactly a sight you wish to be greeted with first thing in the morning. His head is turned to one side, eyes firmly closed, top lip curled into a snarl against the pillow, that unruly mane of his tangled around his shoulders. One hand is stretched out up the backboard, clutched into a claw-like shape, whilst the other dangles carelessly over the side of the bed; legs entwined in the sheets, one foot now and again giving an involuntary twitch in his sleep.

Altogether, pretty much resembling some animal conscience that's forgotten the body it's currently occupying is human.

Well, that answers my question as to where he is this morning. He must have changed again last night, only this time round seems to have been a lot more violent than previously. I suppose I should wake him; there's only one way I'm going to find out what's going on here, and leaving him to sleep won't do either of us any good. He's too heavy a sleeper for shaking to work, so I resort to yesterday's tactics and flick him on the ear.

Javert's eyes immediately snap open. He sits up; brow furrowed, lips drawn back into a bestial snarl, a deep growling bark emerging from his throat. Reflexes overtake my startled consciousness for a moment, and the newspaper that I've been carrying rolled up in one hand since the Surete connects smartly with his nose. The resulting yelp and whine is enough to inform my brain I am no longer in mortal danger. Civilities now being re-established, I smile pleasantly at the Inspector, currently engaged in clutching his hands over his nose.

"Good morning, Javert," I say sweetly.

"What was that for?" he moans, rubbing his injured nose. "Why can't you just knock? Or tap me on the shoulder like any normal person?"

"You must admit it was effective, though," I say, smirking.

He mutters something unintelligible under his breath, the one word I do catch sounding suspiciously like 'bastard'.

"Why are you here, anyway?" he asks out loud.

"I needed to see you." Which was perfectly true.

"Couldn't it have waited till I got into work?"

"That is if you ever would have turned up for work today," I say, plainly. "Have you seen the time?"

A frown creases his brow. He glances to the window to see that it is in fact daylight, the tiniest flash in his eyes betraying his surprise at this fact. He turns to reach for the pocket watch on his beside cabinet, but his fingers stop suddenly a few inches above the casing. Above the _silver_ casing. Quickly he shoots a glance in my direction, and I am careful to keep my face impassive. I don't know why he insists on pretending; he _knows_ that I know. He frowns, then picks up the watch, wincing slightly, and turns it over to read the time. It truly is pathetic to see.

On seeing the time Javert's eyes widen to what must be twice their original size. He makes the single comment of "Shit!" and makes a bid to leap out of bed, but as he does so I grab his shoulders and push him back down again.

"Javert," I say in my sternest voice. "You are not going anywhere until you give me some explanation."

"But –"

"No buts! Javert, what is going on? You fall asleep at the office yesterday, I send you home to rest, only to find you not at work today and out for the count at eleven o'clock in the morning, which, for you, is decidedly unusual. Are you sick? If your affliction is in any way affecting you –"

"I do _not_ have an affliction!"

"Really," I say dryly. "You could have fooled me."

He turns to glare at me angrily, about to protest but I cut him off.

"Oh come on, Javert! What's the point in fighting it now? Night before last I saw you transformed, I saw your reaction to that bag of aniseed, I've seen you wake up and growl like an animal, and now I've seen your slight aversion to anything silver. Don't even try to deny it anymore; it will only make it worse!"

Javert is basically, at heart, a thug. He knows it, I know it, and he knows that I know it. Most of the time he manages to ignore this by hiding behind layers of cunning, paperwork and a tongue so sharp that he could probably decapitate a person if he wanted to; but there are times when the thug very much makes his presence known. Now is such a time. He gets a certain look on his face; features completely blank save the contraction of the eyebrows, the left corner of his mouth giving an odd, involuntary twitch, the expression in his eyes modulating between 'innocently attentive' and 'murderous'.

"I… don't know…"

"I _saw_ you, Javert!" I snarl, taking a step closer so his nose is only inches away from mine. The only way to get him to confess will be to make him angry enough to slip up. "Why don't you just admit it? Admit that you're a werewolf; admit it! I want to hear the word 'werewolf'! I want to hear it from your own lips!"

In that instant he snaps. His hand shoots forward to close around my neck as he rises from the bed in a fit of rage. I am slightly surprised by this sudden outburst of temper; I must have really hit home. Yet for all this show of brutality the grasp around my neck is remarkably loose. I've pushed him, but not over the edge.

"What are you waiting for?" I ask calmly, looking steadily into those dark eyes. Beneath the anger it is easy to detect the undertone of fear.

"Why?" he growls, shaking me slightly. "Why couldn't you leave me alone?"

"You refused to obey an order, Javert. Coming from you that is worrying."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!" he says weakly, readjusting the grip on my neck which remains just as inadequate. "It's just once a month – once a month! Can I have no peace? Can I have no secrets?"

"Not of that magnitude," I say, gently reaching up to prise the unresisting fingers from my neck. "Not from me. And I don't call two nights in a row 'once a month'. You should have told me, Javert."

"Oh yes," He sinks down onto the bed, sagging back against the wall. "Oh yes, I can just see it! 'Please don't send me on an assignment tonight, monsieur! Why? Because I'm going to turn into a dog'!"

He stops to sigh, running a hand distractedly through his silvery hair before he continues, this time speaking more to himself than to anyone else.

"What am I to do now? Once this gets round I'm finished! No, I'll go; I'll give in my resignation, I'll be gone by tomorrow morning. No one need know. Yes, that's it."

He goes to get up, but I step in his path.

"And where do you think you're going?" I ask firmly.

"To, to pack," he says, frowning. "I understand, after this, that I cannot continue with my duties –"

"Did I say such a thing?" I say, pushing him back down, for the second time this morning. "Lord, you're too melodramatic for your own good at times, Javert!"

He sits there, looking confused. God in heaven, he can be so slow when it suits him!

"It's simple enough," I say, carefully pronouncing my words as if talking to a child. "I have come to the conclusion, same as you, that your little 'ailment' might be to our advantage."

He looks at me blankly. He blinks.

"But, the other night –"

"The other night I was only trying to bring it to your attention that you'd been found out," I say, frowning. "I admit, the method may have been unnecessarily elaborate, but what I said was true; you need to be more careful. Because of one discrepancy two people now know about your… inner demons. Only two; but that could so easily become more. Being rumoured to be a were-bale-of-hay is very different to being rumoured to be a were_wolf_."

He lets out a snort, folding his arms across his chest, raising one eyebrow questioningly.

"In the sense that a bale of hay has never harmed anyone?"

"Precisely."

It looks as if he is about to argue, but seems to think better of it, closing his mouth and looking down gloomily at the bed sheets.

"I never killed anyone," he says sullenly.

"I don't believe for a moment you ever would," I say quietly. "But do you understand me now? Do you understand exactly why you must be more cautious? The last thing I want the assorted criminals of Paris to find out is all they need do to distract Inspector Javert is carry around a bag of aniseed."

There is a resolute silence from the bed. Admittedly that last comment was a bit harsh; it's not as if it is in any way his fault. I lean back against the bedside cabinet, folding my arms over my chest, sighing as I do so.

"I take it then it is only at full moon that you can change?" I ask cautiously.

"No," he says offhand, his voice holding the slightest tone of disgust. "I can change when I want, but it's only at full moon that I'm forced to. I prefer not to if I can help it; it's a very unpleasant experience."

"The pain?"

"More the feeling that you've been run over by a cart horse for several days afterwards. The amount of energy needed is obscene."

"Is that why you keeled over?"

"I suppose so," he says, shrugging. "But it doesn't usually affect me that much."

Right. Pull the other one.

"So what happened last night?" I challenge. "I'm guessing you changed again, assuming of course that you don't usually sleep naked and start barking at people when they wake you up."

As I predicted, his immediate reaction is to shoot me an angry glare from beneath his brows… but then he does something completely unexpected. He pales. Almost instantly he returns to focus on the bed sheets spread across his lap, not daring for some reason to look me in the eye.

"I… don't really know what happened last night," he says hesitantly. I can see the hand gripping the covers around his waist is shaking slightly. "That was… unusual. I wasn't expecting it."

"You weren't expecting it?" I cannot take my eyes off his shaking hand, a slow unease rising within me. Such an outward sign of disturbance for Javert betrays severe inner turmoil. The knuckles have now gone white. "What do you mean by that? Has something gone wrong?"

"I, I don't think so," His voice is becoming quieter, pondering as he goes along. "Nothing wrong; just what normally happens. But I've never been… been forced twice in a row."

He lets out another sigh, once more running a hand through his hair. It unnerves me to see how ill he looks; he's so much paler than yesterday, bags clearly visible under his eyes, and if possible he seems to have grown thinner since I last saw him.

"You really don't look well," I say, very aware this must sound like understatement of the year.

"It'll pass."

"Are you sure? Only you –"

"It will pass!" he snaps, the fire of defiance returning momentarily to his eyes. "I just need to get back to work, not sit at home bored out of my mind with some two-bit agent breathing down the back of my neck!"

I can tell before I even consider opening my mouth it will be no good arguing. I shrug nonchalantly.

"As long as you're certain."

"I am."

"On your head be it, then; but don't expect me to pick up the pieces afterwards. I need you to call at the Surete this afternoon; around two. We'll talk this over further then."

I'm about to leave and am halfway out the door before Javert's voice suddenly calls me back.

"What's that in your inside pocket?"

Oh, so we can sense through clothing now, can we? Smiling, I turn back to face him, taking out the silver teaspoon from inside my jacket.

"Just a little precaution. I didn't know how you would take this."

Javert sneers.

"Don't be daft," he says, settling back against the wall. "It has to touch me to have any effect, and that thing's not even proper silver!"

At this my face falls slightly and Javert allows a smirk to curl at the corners of his mouth. I'll kill that shopkeeper when I next get the chance. 'The finest'… I'll crucify him!

"Two o'clock," I say briskly, not wishing to see that malicious little grin widen any further. "And mind you're there!"

And with that I walk out of the room, closing the bedroom door behind me. My blood boiling, I make my way down the stairs, thumping my feet loudly on the treads as I go so as to drown out the roar of laughter emanating from the apartment behind me.


	4. A Secret Valentine

**A/N:** Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'm back. In an attempt to improve my characterisation, I have started reading Vidocq's memoirs. However, I have not got very far so bear with me on this one. Please tell me if Javert and Vidocq ever get too similar in terms of actions, dialogue, mannerisms, etc. I know they're basically the same person (or elements thereof), but even so, there has to be some difference. This chapter reveals my Javert's real first name. I have no idea about Valentines customs in 19th Century France, but I'm not letting that stop me.

This chapter has caused me no end of grief, so I would appreciate it if you could review.

_Answer to review from_ '**Do I need a name? I think not.**': Not necessarily, but it does help when answering reviews. 1) I know who to address them to, and 2) If you have an account here I can answer questions via instant-messenger. Anyway, glad you're enjoying the story so far, and in answer to your question; Javert was 51 years old, but as of this chapter he is 52.

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4. A Secret Valentine

_Javert._

Another Valentine's Day over and done with. In all honesty you would not believe the number of supposed 'housebreakers' I've apprehended over the decades that have turned out to be young bloods decided to play Romeo for an evening. I don't know why, but when the calendar hits February 14th everybody seems to suddenly get this mad idea in their heads that they have to be romantic. Personally I could think of a hundred things I'd rather be doing than getting stuck up a drainpipe, pulling half the shrubbery away from the side of a house, accidentally breaking windows, tearing the seat of my trousers on a garden wall or getting bitten by dogs.

I also turned fifty-two last night.

I put down my razor and pick up the towel, wiping away what's left of the foam from my chin. It's early morning, just after dawn and the sky is turning paler by the minute; blue-white and clear, the last of the stars and the near full moon still just visible. I can't remember when it was I took to the habit of rising with the sun. Everything goes down hill from here on, but this is the most treasured moment of my day.

Casting the towel aside I continue to dress, slipping my shirt on over my vest, shorting out my braces, then bending down on all fours to search for the cravat which seems to have mysteriously snaked its way under the bed, even though I folded it neatly on the chair last night. The last few days have really taken it out of me, what with that business down the docks earlier and yesterday's 'entertainment'. I seem to tire so easily now; it only takes a few days of intense activity to make me feel ready for the knackers' yard. The oncoming of old age has never troubled me before, not even when I hit fifty; but with these last few months I'm starting to wonder what affect it might really be having. Tonight will be full moon again, and whilst age is not such a pressing issue for human beings, it is so much more for dogs. The theory supposedly runs that for every human year there are seven dog years. Part of me is dog, whether I like it or not, and therefore a lot older than I care to think. Don't try to tell me there can't be any adverse affects from that!

I finally manage to persuade the cravat to untie itself from around the bed post, one victorious yank bringing it out slightly dirtier and crumpled than I would have preferred. Last month I was forced to change twice in a row, and that's never happened before; not in twenty-eight years. And that's not all; there was my behaviour once changed. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but after Vidocq left me that morning I got up to find the place savaged; broken furniture, claw and bite marks everywhere. What's worse is that I cannot think what triggered this second change, and for the first time in my life I am really worried. I'm uncertain whether to tell Eugène of my fears. I admit I have often longed for a confident, but what would Vidocq be able to do? He may be able to deal with any criminal scenario that comes across his path, but I find it hard to see how he and his not-so-silver teaspoons could be of any assistance if anything really did happened to me. Besides, if he still didn't know would I tell in him? Would I tell anyone?

No, I wouldn't; and he knows that as much as I do.

Brushing these thoughts aside I concentrate on my reflection in the mirror, fastening my leather stock in place and adjusting the cravat to my satisfaction. Whatever happens between now and tonight, when the changes come they shall not find me off guard; and neither for that matter will Vidocq.

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_Vidocq._

It's been a month since our incident at the Gorbeau tenement with the aniseed. I have to get his signature on those charge sheets for Briser's mob today; whilst we're at it I can take the opportunity to jog his memory, though I doubt he could possibly forget his last full moon even if he tried. I glance at my watch and see that there is at least an hour before my next appointment. I have time; I could go now.

"Simon?"

Simon looks up from the corner of the desk where he has for the past fifteen minutes been trying to train a large black beetle he found in the _'Poisonings'_ file to walk in a straight line along a piece of string.

"Yes, Eugène?"

"I'll be out for about an hour or so. If anything crops up I'll either be with the Inspector or Bihet."

"At Pontoise?"

"At Pontoise."

Simon nods, then promptly goes back to training his beetle, which is currently making a beeline for the inkwell. I internally sigh and shake my head, putting on my cap as I close the office door. It's unnatural, it really is. A lad his age should be out and about, getting into scrapes and generally running amok; I certainly remember my adolescence was anything but uneventful. But Simon…? I suppose I should be grateful he's reliable, but there are far more interesting ways to misspend your youth.

Once outside I hail a fiacre and make for the south bank. Ten minutes later I get out at the post in the rue Pontoise, tip the driver and tell him to wait. As I pass through the outer office the duty sergeant informs me the Inspector is around and holding 'surgery'. Good, so at least he's here today. Pushing the door open gently I see Javert sitting at the desk, poised over his notebook. I'm about to knock, but then I pause. I wonder how absorbed he really is? I know I am unnecessarily cruel to him at times, but the chance to have a laugh at his expense is always irresistible. Careful to keep my footfalls as silent as possible, I creep up to the desk, avoiding the familiar field of squeaky floorboards with accustomed ease. I manage to get within a three feet of the desk when there is a sudden unexpected squeak from under my right foot. Javert immediately raises his head and, seeing me frozen mid-creep, smiles sweetly.

"Good morning, Eugène. Looking for me?"

"You've loosened that floorboard since last time," I say, relaxing my pose, slightly crestfallen. I sneer, making a point of ignoring that look of triumphant glee plastered across his over-sized mug and glance at the papers scattered on over his desk. "Bored, are we?"

"No," he says turning the notebook over as quickly as possible. I manage to catch a glimpse of a lot of swirls and what looked like an eye doodled on the page. "What can I do for you?"

I shrug my shoulders, feigning disinterest.

"I supposed I should drop by and wish you happy birthday for yesterday, though I doubt the sentiment will be welcome."

"Oh, how thoughtful," Javert says dryly. "Why you really here?"

"I need your signature on these," I say dropping the envelope containing the papers on the desk in front of him. "Charge sheets for Briser and his mob down at the docks last week."

"These have been a while coming," Javert murmurs, frowning as he picks up the envelope between thumb and forefinger. "What was the delay?"

"Backlog in the administration," I say, automatically leaning against the desk. "Are the gentlemen finding their accommodation to their liking?"

"Houiller thinks the youngest's ready to go," he says, slipping the papers out onto the desk. "Been crying like a newborn the past two nights. Should be fairly easy to get a confession."

"Indeed? I might pay him a visit later then."

There is a slight pause in the conversation as Javert shuffles through the papers. I pick up a random sheet from the desk to peruse; a letter from one of the other inspectors, heavily annotated with facetious comments in Javert's neat hand. "I heard the Valentine's rounds were quite eventful last night."

At this Javert allows himself a grin.

"Weren't they! Do you know I caught a man who couldn't have been less than sixty hanging by his coat tails from a rosebush? We had to fetch a ladder to get him down, along with having a couple of men on standby to catch him if he fell."

"You're not the only one who had some entertainment," I say. "Marcus broke up a fight between two young bourgeoisies who'd come to woo the same girl; blood and roses everywhere."

Javert lets out a disgusted a snort.

"I don't know what gets into them," he says, shaking his head wearily. "I mean, what is the point? If a girl's going to marry you she'll marry you; surely shinning up a drainpipe won't make any difference?"

"Never been much of a romantic, have you?"

"No," he says shortly. "And I don't intend to start now. The day you find me climbing up a drainpipe to a lover's window take it as proof that I have finally gone mad."

Silence settles once more as Javert applies his signature to the papers where necessary. I am not altogether sure whether now is the right time to bring up the other reason for my visit, nor how I am going to broach the subject. Then again, no matter how carefully I phrase my words he'll detect any ploy; might as well take the direct approach.

"So," I say slowly, glancing up at the clock on the wall. "Are you sufficiently prepared for tonight?"

"Oh?" he says innocently, careful not to take his eyes off the page. "And what would be happening tonight?"

"Don't start that again," I snap. I'm not going to start playing this game. "You know what I mean."

Javert heaves a frustrated sigh, laying aside the pen, leaning back in his chair and fixing me with an irritated glare.

"Look, I don't know why you're so anxious to concern yourself with this. I've been perfectly fine without your help for years; I doubt I will suddenly start needing it now."

"Is that so? And what about last time?" I say levelly. "You said the second change was unexpected."

Javert shoots a cautious glance to the door to make sure there is no danger of us being overheard.

"Yes, it was unexpected," he says, lowering his voice. "Yes, it was the first time it happened twice in a row, but it's not important; not as if it's life-threatening or anything!"

"Is it?" I query, fixing him with my sternest gaze. "You tell me."

Javert sighs, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Too many… maybe; but two is nothing! Most likely it was a one-off."

He's not being honest with me. It's troubling him a lot more than he would care to admit, but he's right; I know nothing of these matters. What can I do about it save have him watched? Well, whatever I can do I intend to find out, but in the meantime…

"Fine then," I say shrugging my shoulders dismissively. "But just to warn you I'm not the only one who's concerned. You might not have noticed, but your landlady seems very worried about you."

Javert lets out a low moan, wiping his hands over his face.

"Does she ever do anything else?" he murmurs. "The demented old bat should be locked away for a flaming nuisance!"

If you only knew, Javert; if only you knew… But that's not your style, is it? Resigned, I pick up the paper, waving it slightly to dry the ink and am about to fold it away when I suddenly notice something odd about the signature. I frown.

"So, you'll be perfectly fine tonight?"

"Yes."

"And you're not in any way disturbed by the prospect? Anything to cause any distraction or mental lapse?"

"No!"

"Then why have you signed this _'Valentin Javert'_?" I ask, placing the papers back down in front of him.

Javert frowns, then visibly blanches as he sees the glaringly obvious mistake.

"I thought your name was Phillipe?"

"It is!" he growls defensively. Too defensively. Valentin, eh? Who'd have thought? But then again, considering the date of his birthday… Well, well; another little skeleton fallen out of the wardrobe.

"Mother overly romantic, was she?"

"I am _not_ called Valentin!"

"No? How about Romeo?"

"Shut up!"

"Alright, alright," I say, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. "I'll say no more about it. Besides, I don't need to," I pick up the papers again, grinning. "I have written evidence."

"Give me that!" Javert snaps, trying to grab the documents from my hand, but at that moment there is a knock on the door and a sergeant-de-ville pokes his head into the room.

"Sir, I have that dossier… Oh! Pardon, messieurs; I did not wish to intrude."

"No, it's alright, Bouchart," says Javert, sighing and leaning back in his chair, once more running a hand through his hair and giving me a dirty look. "You were just leaving, weren't you?"

"So it seems I was," I say, folding the document and tucking it into my jacket. "Places to go, people to see. You'll be alright for me to call in on you tomorrow?"

"Fine," says Javert with a resigned tone, taking the dossier from Bouchart and picking up his pen. "Whenever."

"Tomorrow it is, then," I say, heading out of the door. "I'll see you later… Valentin."

I hear the pen snap in his grasp behind me, and I cannot help but grin as I climb back into the cab. God bless whichever one of his parents came up with Valentin; this will provide hours of future entertainment.

---------

_Javert._

"_M. Thiénot,_

_It is with unfeigned pleasure that I am able to report that by the efforts of the Brigade de Sureté we are now in a position to successfully prosecute those associated with the Delamarre affair. A confession has been obtained from one Edouard Grossel, the youngest of the gang led by Gaston Briser seized last week, as to the name, activities and connections of his employer. This shall be made available to you as soon as the administrative formalities have been dealt with. His evidence along with that which has already been gathered should be sufficient to secure a conviction._

_Regards,_

_Javert, Inspector First Class of the Second Division."_

I put down my pen with a definite glow of accomplishment, wave the paper to dry and fold it, seal it with a wafer and give it to the waiting gendarme standing the other side of the desk. I hate writing official letters; I can never get the phrasing to sound quite right and I always have to run through several drafts before I have something even remotely adequate, but this time I can genuinely claim that I am glad to have written this one. This case has been an uncommonly long and complicated affair, Delamarre having given us the run-around for over a year now; but last weeks raids and that pup Grossel cracking so completely finally gave us the evidence to net him – and all his little minions, to boot. Rarely do I claim to take such deep satisfaction in my work, but it's at times like this that I feel glad to be alive.

Heaving a sigh, I lean back in my chair and stretch luxuriantly. As I do so a file protruding from the corner of the desk catches my eye. On the cover it is simply labelled _'Gorbeau'_. Leaning forward once again I slide the file out from beneath the layers of stray paper and open it to scan the notes. I never did remember where I had seen that man Jondrette before, nor will I ever get the chance to ask him soon, as the investigation has been passed on to that idiot Lobjois. A month, can you believe it, and still no closer to finding out what they were up to! Last I heard they'd moved Brujon from solitary to the Cour Charlemagne in the hope he'll talk. A vain hope, if you ask me; and if the magistrate is fool enough to be taken in by that look of dim confusion, then I can confidently say he is soon going regret his fit of benevolence. The whole operation was a complete hash; Montparnasse evaded us completely, Claquesous vanished from under our noses and, to top it all, I never found Valjean.

Turning to the last page of the file I scan the note I wrote to myself detailing where I'd left off the trail. I meant to go back to the rue Plumet; I had just found the time to when everything started moving on Delamarre. But that's over now, perhaps tonight I can have another look? Would he have set a new trail? I wonder… No, I have more pressing things to turn my attention to. With the news of the confession Vidocq sent a request for me to check out a couple of suspect warehouses in the Latin Quarter; that will have to take priority tonight – I have no time to indulge my private little suspicions. Is that what this is, private? Now I look at it I suppose it is; I'm the only one who knows Valjean is alive after all, and it is no longer in the immediate public interest to recapture him. It will have to wait. Again.

Tossing the file to one side I get up and grab my coat, hat and cane. I'll need to see Maurice before tonight; see what he knows about the place. If I move quickly I catch him before he goes for his Thursday rut. Bend his back for the service any other day, but God save anyone who thinks they could make him give up his Thursdays… Once outside my hand sinks automatically into my left pocket, but stops short as it feels nothing but cloth. Hang on, where's my snuff case? I take a look and to my consternation it isn't there; its handkerchief is, but not the case. No hole in the pocket either, so it can't have fallen out. Somewhat perplexed I pat down the rest of my pockets. Nope, not there either. I swear it was in here this morning; what can I have done with it? I didn't take it out at the office, that I'm sure, so it must be somewhere at home. Yes, I remember refilling it last night whilst I was having supper, and I put it up on the mantelpiece out of the way… Ah, you ass, you should have learned by now!

With a frustrated growl I change direction and head back to my apartment. Honestly, what is wrong with me these days? Next thing I know I'll be forgetting my own head. Once at the tenement I open the door and make my way up the stairs as quietly as possible so not to disturb my landlady; the last thing I need is to have my afternoon disrupted by a moralising old biddie who doesn't like the colour of my cheeks. Carefully sliding my keys out of my pocket, I select the correct one, ease it into the lock which turns with an almost inaudible click, and the door opens on its well-oiled hinges. Swiftly I move to the mantelpiece and am about to pick up the snuffbox when a slight tingling sensation stays my hand. The case sits there harmlessly enough, its silver casing gleaming in the dim light. But first things first; I remove the handkerchief from my pocket and wrap it round my hand. Having taken the necessary precaution I reach forward and take it, but as I do so a shot of burning pain sweeps up my arm and into my head.

I let go of the case immediately, barely managing to stifle a cry of pain and the box falls to the floor, springing open and scattering snuff all over the hearthrug. For a moment I stand disorientated, shocked and confused. What was that? How did that happen? My hand was completely covered, the silver can't have touched my skin! I re-wrap my hand, making sure that it is thoroughly enclosed and bend down to attempt to pick the snuffbox up off the carpet; but as soon as my fingers so much as brush the surface of the case the burning sensation returns, only stronger this time, catching my breath, forcing a low moan from my throat and making me recoil. This is crazy! What is going on? I feel so sick, my stomach churning, a sweat breaking out on my forehead. I can't understand it, I just can't… Grabbing hold of the stone surround, I ease myself up off the floor and stagger somewhat uneasily into the bedroom. I need to lie down, I can't think straight. Just a few minutes to clear my head... I lower myself down onto the bed, gingerly laying my head on the pillow and trying to persuade my tense body to relax. Just a few minutes; just a few minutes and I'll be fine.


	5. Wolf Amongst the Chickens

**A/N:** And the next – after several months. I have been exceptionally lazy and I apologise for it. Shorter chapter here with a longer on the way. At this rate I'll probably be celebrating my 70th birthday by the time the end chapter's posted. yawns scratches behind left ear with back leg I hope somebody's still reading this…

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5. Wolf Amongst the Chickens

Why am I on the bed? I'm never allowed to sleep on the bed. The man, the tall one with the grey fur on his face, he always says I mustn't sleep on the bed; that I must lay on the rug in the next room, in front of the fire where it's warm. But where is he? Where's he gone? I know he's never there when I am, but somehow he always is; at the back of my mind… but he's not here. Not anywhere. I let out a pitiful whine as I get up, sniffing around the house to try and find him. His scent is everywhere; he was here not so long ago. Sir? Sir, man, person? Where've you gone?

Not here. How strange. He's left the door open for me it would seem. Odd, he never does; he usually only leaves the bedroom window ajar. God, but I am starving! How long has it been since I had any food? I remember being ill, so ill… But no, I wasn't ill; it was just this, just the transformations. Nothing unusual.

What?

It's full moon! Full moon, you idiot! What are you thinking about 'the man'? That's you! As for food, what am I prattling about food for? I always leave myself a bowl down next to the table so I can just… No, wait a minute, I didn't this time, did I? I meant to later tonight, but I needed to lie down, so I went into the bedroom and… Oh shit.

Taking a glance out of the window I can see that it is already 'later tonight', the silvery moon shining brightly in an almost cloudless sky. I must have slept through the whole afternoon, although I would have thought the pain of transformation would have woken me, like it did last month. I suppose there's no use fretting about it now; but I'm definitely going to hear from someone tomorrow. Anyway, might as well go to work now; search out Vidocq's two warehouses while the scent is still hot, so to speak. It's a shame I didn't get the chance to see Maurice – his advice would have been valuable, but I should be able to find what I need without it; just would have saved some time.

Cautiously I pad across to the door, poking my nose through the crack onto the landing and sniffing. All clear. As I start my descent of the stairs my fur begins to bristle. I've never been out of the house this way as a wolf and it feels very strange to be in such a public space; I know I won't feel even remotely safe until I am outside. But how do I get outside from here? The concierge always locks the front door at night and there's no way I'll be able to get it open. No hope of a window either; even in summer she fears of marauding ruffians murdering us all in our beds. Once down I sniff around the dark hallway, trying to find any hint of an escape route to the outside world. I'm in luck; my nose seems to be directing me to the concierge's kitchen.

The door is ajar and I push it open with my muzzle. The landlady is sound asleep on a chair next to the fire, a pile of knitting in her lap and snoring gently. Silently I slip by her chair to the back door which she has left partially open; she must have fallen asleep before she had a chance to close it. I merely have to scratch it a couple of times before it swings open, the hinges emitting a loud squeak of protest. The woman momentarily stirs and out of instinct my entire body tenses, but she settles back down again and breathing a sigh of relief I slip out into the night. That was close, too close. How I'm going to get back in again I don't know; I'll have to figure that one out when the time comes.

Just as I trot round the corner into a wider street a sudden thought stops me in my tracks. _Where did my clothes go?_ I should have woken up all tangled in my shirt and trousers, or probably have been strangled to death by the stock and cravat. I didn't take them off, that I'm sure of, and I certainly didn't go to work in the nude; so where did they go? I glance up to my bedroom window, weighing up the chances of being able to break the window quietly enough so as not to wake the concierge on my way back in, but the chances are very slim indeed. Besides sleeping in a draught and paying the glazier's bill is not a very attractive prospect. No, it's not worth it. Perhaps Vidocq'll put me up for the night? He wouldn't mind giving me the carpet, then he can send someone round for my clothes in the morning. Maybe it does pay to have a confidante…

I head for the end on the street, moving up a gear into a fast trot. I have so much time to make up for tonight. I'll have to move fast, as there are only four or five hours left before dawn; however I have not made it more than two streets away before I am stalled by a sudden wave of dizziness. Oh… My legs can't seem to co-ordinate themselves and I stumble, grinding to a halt. I shake my head to try and clear it, but that just makes it worse, my vision swimming in and out of focus. What's happening? Where am I? What am I doing here? I raise my eyes to see the moon glowing red; an angry red, a bloody red… I do my best to try and make out my surroundings, but everything is slipping away fast; I no longer recall names, places or objects. In desperation I put my nose to the ground, trying to find a scent that I can recognise to take me home. People, horses, dung, filth, slush and soot… and there is something else. Blood; I can smell blood. There must be food nearby. A butcher's, maybe? A slaughter house?

No! You insufferable hound, how can I think of food at a time like this?

What else is there to think of?

Plenty! Such as… such as… What was I thinking about just now? I can't recall. But it was important, I swear it was–

Can't have been that important if you forgot. Now come on, before someone else gets it!

Yes, I can smell them around here – dogs of all shapes and sizes, hunting and scrounging in my territory! A low growl rumbles up through my throat. Thieving bastards, I'll teach them not to poach on my reserve! It's not far off, I can smell it from here; a definite kill only a few streets away. My stomach gives a deep, pinching gurgle, spurring my legs to go faster. I am on to the scent, and tonight I shall feast!

---------

_Vidocq._

"So what's on today's menu?"

"Rape in Saint Marceau, two suicides – one in a stable in St. Denis, the second found in the River just past the Pont au Change – theft on a property in the Marais and a poultry seller mauled to death by a dog in the Latin Quarter; his chicken house was massacred as well. Two witnesses to the incident; fishmongers."

Quiet night then. "Anything else?"

"There was one in a few hours ago," said Simon, rummaging through his papers to find the relevant report. "A wine merchant's cellar in the rue Saint Médard was broken into, nothing taken though."

"Isn't that the same district as the mauling?"

"Three streets away."

"Did they pick the lock?"

"No, smashed the cellar window. The noise was what alerted the owner."

"Did he see anyone?"

"He says he saw a shape running away. Not very clear; dark, crouched over and lurching this way and that."

Could be connected. The dog might have found its way into the cellar; a mad dog wouldn't have a care about going through a pane of glass. I'll get someone to make a few more enquiries though, just to be on the safe side.

"Alright then; give me the list."

Simon is just about to hand over the paper when there is a loud knock on the door. In an instant the boy's face pales, clutching the paper to his chest convulsively and dives beneath the desk. I give a hefty sigh. I thought we'd finally coaxed him out of this unnecessary timidness.

"Come in!"

Amelot walks in, holding what I assume is a note and a worried expression on his face.

"You have a moment, M. Jules? It's urgent."

"What's the message?" I ask absently, rising from my chair and hauling Simon up by the collar. The boy's shaking. Amelot looks from me to Simon, then back to me again with a questioning glance.

"Well?" I ask sharply.

Hearing the tone in my voice and seeing the significant glare directed at him Amelot instantly recollects himself.

"A note from the rue Pontoise about a call they got half an hour ago," he says, edging his bulk into the room and closing the door behind him. "Misconduct on the part of one of our agents."

"Who is it this time? Not Maurice again?"

"No. The Inspector."

For a moment I stand there staring at him blankly, Simon momentarily forgotten. I can't quite believe what I'm hearing.

"The Inspector?"

"Yes. Inspector Javert."

"I know which inspector, we've only got one! Are you sure they said Javert? What has he done? What can _Javert_ have done?"

I don't why I'm asking, I know what it's going to be. If Javert were injured or dead Amelot would just say, and with last night being full moon it could only be one thing; this certain knowledge is accompanied by a horrible creeping sensation in my guts. But there is always the chance I might be mistaken. I hope to God I am mistaken. Amelot is looking at my white face, trying to gauge my reaction before he says any more. Ye gods, stop being so cautious, man, and put me out of my misery!

"His landlady found him early this morning dumped naked in the privy, bloodied and… covered in chicken feathers."

Silence.

"M. Jules?"

Oh Christ. Oh Brilliant.

"Amelot," I reach for my coat. "Grab Guidon and Marlois from whatever they're doing; send one round to Lobjois at Pontoise and have the other meet me at Javert's apartment – I don't want a word getting out about this! Simon, run to Chabouillet and explain what's happened; they know you at the Prefecture, they'll let you see him. Tell him 'No further action required'. He'll understand. I'm going round there immediately to see what can be done. And Amelot," I say, snatching up my hat. "Burn that note at once."


End file.
